“Ball so hard, this shit crazy”
It was a money-draining party and I had a blast.
Heart Of Douche-ness or “The Imperialism Of Young Assholes”
Take up the White Mans Burden, Hipsters. Conquer the middle class with your bougie contempt and self-loathing fashion. But don’t complain when you’re branded the enemy.
EULA, Life Size Maps & More at Shea Stadium
Five great bands at a Friday show in Shea Stadium.
Silent Barn Public Meeting Tomorrow
Panelists gather to discuss All Ages venues, with some necessary rocking out.
alt-J at Glasslands
Lead singer Joe Newman asked us to sweat with him and we did.
Confession: My Roommate Was 92 Years-old
At 32, I was living with my parents in Rockland County again. I was too depressed to do anything but marathon sleep, wake up at 5 PM and slowly spoon-feed myself oatmeal. Once highly ambitious, I had worked full-time jobs and pursued my stand-up comedy at night. Yet, after twelve years of struggling in New York, I stopped taking advantage of everything this great city had to offer. Now, I had stopped living fully, allowing my quality of life to disintegrate into something pathetic. I was in desperate search of invigoration. I needed something, anything to turn me on again. I hopped on a plane to San Francisco with six hundred dollars, no place to stay and no job.
The minute I arrived in SFO, I knew I had to try again. I couldn’t be complacent like I’d grown in New York. I was going to have to fight to survive. I put up a housesitting ad on Craigslist. In my glittering fantasies, a Pacific Heights yuppie would decide to go on a soul-searching expedition on the Inca trail and I’d move into his airy West Coast abode. I had it all planned out. I pictured myself in a vintage sundress pouring a bottle of his 1988 Bordeaux into a pricey, beveled cylindrical wine glass. The truth was this wasn’t happening.
“Hello lady, you like rent-stabilized sublet in Russian Hill?” asked the man who was my first caller. I was intrigued. A great neighborhood on the cheap? Pray tell. “A woman lives there. You go week-to-week.”
When he responded he mumbled and spoke fast, but I still heard him loud and clear.
“No roaches, she’s ninety-two.”
“No way,” I said. Yet I was running out of cash and still mortified my Mom, a successful, classy New York State Republican had witnessed my recent reenactment of “the last days of Sylvia Plath” in her home. I’d been seeking her approval since I was a zygote and knew she’d be crushed if after a month, I hadn’t found a place to stay or work in San Francisco.
“Lady, it’s $300 a month. She’s been there for fifty-two years.” Perhaps temporarily living with an older, cranky Italian woman would encourage me to make some serious career moves. I’d be able to call Mom leaving out the part about my surrogate SF granny and tell her I’d cut my expenses $500 a month. I also reasoned I had a great love for my ninety-year old Sicilian grandmother back in New Jersey. She along with my mother, were the most important women of my formative years. Maybe this elderly chick would be just like my 4’7” Grandma Caggia who shoved an Andrew Jackson into my palm each time she saw me and whispered, “You know you’re my favorite.” Just the validation I craved.
When I arrived, an elderly woman opened the door. She was bedraggled and balding and wore a scowl on her face. “Come here,” she yelled. She looked like the mean witch in a fable. The kind that lures you in and creates evil spells from the hairs she tweezes out of your lifeless head. I was scared.
“Who is that?” I asked pointing to a sixty-something lurking in the background.
“He’s a Vietnam Veteran. He gave me a sob story. I don’t like him,” she said. So, Nonna, my new Italian Grandma was running a halfway house. Well, Nonna was in luck. My Dad happened to be an insane Irish Catholic ex-Marine who did two tours of duty in Nam. The last time I saw him he was shooting a bow and arrow at a plastic decoy deer he’d bought and propped up in front of a giant bullseye in our backyard. He continually sent me e-mails since I’d moved to San Francisco telling me I was the family’s Mark Twain. The most recent read, “Don’t give up, Mrs. Twain.” I was 2,500 miles away from home with little money and less friends. I was excited at the prospect of having a familiar reminder of my east coast family in the west.
Before I moved in I went to a party. “Lianne’s roommate is eighty,” a friend announced to a shocked crowd.
“Liar, my roommate is ninety-two!”
The first night at Nonna’s I was jolted awake at 3:30 a.m. Someone was trying to open my door. The blood rushed to my feet as I feared the Vet having a flashback. He was coming to snap my little ‘Viet Cong’ neck.
“I’m an American. I’m one of you!” I shouted, like Dad had taught me. The gold chain lock was losing its fight against the forceful push of my attacker.
“Liiiiannne?” I managed to lift my head three inches to see that it was Nonna peering at me through the chain lock I had installed. She was wearing a bandana on her head and had one brown, bloodshot eye wide open. She looked like a pirate’s deckhand.
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